Chapter 5
Three days off the ice and he’s already acting like he’s been caged for a year.
I should’ve expected it. The second the doc gave the green light for “light practice,” I knew what that little shit would do with it.
Which is not “light.” Because Elias Mercer doesn’t know how to rest. Doesn’t know how to breathe unless it’s for blood, victory, or me.
He’s a storm that pretends it’s a warm front until it hits the glass.
The second Elias skates on, it’s clear he’s in a mood. Curls bouncing, cheeks flushed, mouth running faster than his skates.
I call for a warm-up skate. He sprints the lap like he’s chasing down the Stanley Cup himself. “Mercer,” I growl across the ice. “Ease up.”
He doesn’t even glance at me. He winks at Viktor, chirps something at Cole, and cuts the corner so hard his blade sprays ice.
His knee isn’t wrapped today—it doesn’t look stiff—but I know the bruise is still there.
The kind of hit he took doesn’t vanish in three days just because the doc handed him a tube of gel and told him to behave.
But Elias Mercer does not behave.
“Pup,” I bark, louder now, skating toward him.
He slows down enough to look at me, cocky grin stretched wide. “Yes, Captain?”
Little fucker.
I slide in, stop hard, and glare down at him. “Slow. Down.”
He bats his lashes. “But I feel great, sir.”
“And when you bust your knee for real, what then?”
“Then I’ll crawl on the ice and still win faceoffs,” he says, flipping his stick up one-handed.
I see red. Not because I’m mad, but because he’s skating like a devil, mouth slick with sass, and that stupid bruise is still dark under his skin.
And because I’m hard. I grab his collar, fist curling tight in the front of his jersey.
His eyes widen a little, as if maybe he thought I wouldn’t do this in front of everyone.
The Reapers watch in silence. Even Cole shuts up. Tyler looks like he might actually pass out. Kid’s still learning the rules of this team—when to speak and when to pretend he didn’t see the captain grab his rookie by the throat.
“You think this is funny, Mercer?”
“Maybe…” he drawls, slow and smug. “You getting all growly at me on the ice is kinda—”
“Careful.” My grip tightens. “Say the rest of that sentence and I will make an example out of you right here.”
I feel it. See it. That split-second where the brat inside him wants to test me and the good boy underneath remembers what happened last time he pushed too far during drills. And fuck me, I want him to test me.
“Cap,” Cole cuts in from a few feet back, “not to interrupt your couple’s therapy, but I’d love to not get murdered during scrimmage because your boyfriend’s limping and too horny to admit it.”
Elias gasps. “I am not limping!”
“You are,” Viktor adds flatly. “And you are horny.”
Elias throws both arms in the air like he’s being arrested. “Et tu, Russian?”
“Enough,” I snap, still holding Elias’s collar. My voice drops so low only he can hear. “If you don’t slow down, I’ll bench you and edge you in the goddamn locker room until you learn obedience.”
His pupils blow wide but I let go of his jersey. “Now get in position, pup.”
He skates off fast, but the next stride has just the slightest favor in the knee. And the blush on his face is unmistakable.
Little shit loves it.
And God help me, so do I.
For a while, he listens. It’s weird, honestly.
Elias Mercer obeying. He stays center during drills.
Doesn’t overextend on breakaways. Takes faceoffs like a soldier.
So perfect I catch Cole mouthing “what the fuck” behind him after the second rep.
Even Shane, twitchy bastard that he is, keeps looking over his shoulder.
Second half of practice, we shift into scrimmage lines. Reapers vs. Reapers.
Elias gets paired up with Cole and Tyler, which should’ve been a warning—too much chaos, not enough brakes. Cole’s chirping on every shift. Tyler’s trying way too hard. And Elias? He’s feral with restraint, which is more dangerous than feral without it.
It starts small when he wins a faceoff, clean and tight and textbook, but then his smirk cracks a little too wide and the next sprint comes half a second too fast. He cuts toward the net, and I swear to God he’s grinning like he’s right back on the Wranglers’ ice.
I call out from the bench. “Mercer!”
He doesn’t hear me, or he pretends not to, because of course the hit comes next—Mats, fair and heavy, exactly what Elias needs to snap his head back where it belongs.
But Elias doesn’t back off; he bites into the contact, bounces off the boards, spins with that terrifying edge he’s picked up over the past month, and bolts right back up the ice.
Except now he’s favoring the knee—enough to make my blood boil.
I vault the bench before I even think, my stick clattering to the ice as Viktor curses behind me and Cole yells “Shit!” when Elias gets clipped again, this time by accident—friendly fire, a skate bump—but it’s enough.
Elias jerks sideways and finally stumbles.
He doesn’t fall. But the way his face tightens—shit. No.
I’m at his side in two strides, grabbing his jersey, dragging him off ice like I don’t care who’s watching. He’s still grinning. “Are you stupid?” I snarl, dragging him toward the bench.
“You said I could play—”
“I said take it slow. That’s not slow. That’s suicidal.”
“You didn’t bench me.”
“I will now.”
He grins like a challenge. “You gonna edge me too, Captain?”
I shove him onto the bench, throw a towel at him, and hiss, “Try me, Mercer.”
He opens his mouth again. Viktor smacks the back of his helmet as he skates past. “Idiot,” Viktor mutters.
Elias winces. “Ow, okay, Jesus—”
“Shut up, Mercer,” I growl. And for the next five minutes, he does. But that knee? It's swelling. And I know exactly how this night’s gonna end: with him strapped down and whining while I ice it and his cock just to remind him what happens when he doesn’t listen.
Five minutes.
That’s how long the silence lasts. Five whole minutes of Elias Mercer sitting still, knee wrapped in ice, towel draped around his neck, helmet off and curls plastered to his forehead with sweat.
He’s red-cheeked and twitchy, one leg bouncing.
I catch him adjusting his cup. He’s probably half hard just from being yelled at.
I’m pacing in front of the bench, watching scrimmage unfold without him.
Cole’s doing fine. Mats and Viktor are holding the line.
Shane’s yelling obscenities behind his cage.
He’s barking Latin again. Or maybe curses.
Probably both. I stopped trying to translate the goalie’s dark spells two seasons ago. The world hasn’t ended.
"Hey, sir.” His voice cracks right through my spine. Loud enough for everyone to hear. “If you bench me in playoffs, who’s gonna win your faceoffs and your games?”
The little fuck.
I stop moving, and half the team goes dead quiet as a few heads turn like they can’t believe he actually said it. Tyler slaps a hand over his mouth, Cole’s already wheezing, and I turn slow and deadpan. “Me.”
His mouth twitches. “Can you even win a faceoff anymore, Cap? Isn’t your back all—”
“Mercer.”
“Yessir.”
I step closer and his smirk slips the tiniest bit. “You wanna try me again?”
“I mean, I already did. On ice. Kinda kicked your ass—”
The words cut off with a yelp when I plant my stick against the bench between his legs and lean in, face inches from his. “That mouth better be faster than your knee, pup,” I growl. “Or I’m gonna take you back to the showers and remind you what real punishment feels like.”
He swallows, curls falling into his eyes, his lips part like he’s about to sass me again. I see it on his tongue, brewing,but he thinks better of it.
Smart boy.
He shuts his mouth, eyes darting down, thigh twitching under the towel.
“Good,” I mutter, tapping the stick once between his knees before pushing off. And when I walk away, I don’t miss the way his eyes stay glued to me the whole time.
Another ten minutes of watching him bounce his leg, mouth words at Cole, chirp from the sidelines. I try to ignore it, focus on the scrimmage, on Tyler trying not to cry every time Viktor shoves him into the boards, on Shane foaming at the mouth behind the net.
But then Elias opens that mouth again. “Hey, Cap,” he calls, loud enough to carry. “Y’know, your second line lost the puck again. Maybe you wanna rethink benching your best center?”
I don’t turn. I don’t even look at him. “You’ve gotten way too comfortable with your sass, pup.”
His laugh is immediate and smug.
“I liked you better when you wanted to please me,” I add, ice in my tone.
The smile drops off his face. And then… he pouts. Actually pouts. “I do want to please you, sir,” he mumbles, quieter now. Real, honest, and it hits something low in my gut. “But you said win the Cup and you’ll put a ring on my finger.”
He shrugs one shoulder, eyes flicking up to me, green and sharp and so fucking earnest. “I wanna win.” He’s not joking now. That edge in his voice—that’s the kid who grew up carving my name into notebooks and whispering someday into the dark.
Christ.
The entire rink fades to background noise.
Just the screech of blades and the crack of sticks somewhere far off as my rookie sits on that bench with a knee wrapped in pain, a mouth full of sass, and eyes that only want me.
I stalk toward him slow. “Then behave,” I growl low, stepping close enough that my shadow swallows him.
“Win smart. Don’t make me bench you for real. ”
He blinks up at me. Then his grin comes back, lazy and wrecked. “Yes, sir.” And I know he’s gonna push me again.